SNIFFING THE WIND

The other day as I was preparing supper I happened to look out the window just as the scent of frying pork chops hit the breeze.  Our dog had been lazing in the afternoon sun, sprawled out on the trampoline – it’s where he guards his kingdom from.  As I watched he went from a dormant, oblivious, pile of fur to upright and alert, sniffing the wind.  I’ve never seen a dog more in tuned with the world through his sense of smell.

But then, aren’t we all?

This wonderful season of spring has us all out, sniffing the wind.

Finally the never-ending Saskatchewan wind has more substance to it than just ice and snow.  Its relentless movement across the land stirs up not only what we can see – good old Saskatchewan dust – but also the things we can only smell: the earthy goodness of warming soil, the pungent tang of opening poplar leaves, and the whatever-it-is that makes clothes hung outside to dry smell so wonderful.  Even the less savory smells of thawing cattle sheds or freshly churned slough mud are welcomed as proof of life in a world so long dead and frozen and white.

Just like our dog, Turbo, we’ve gone from dormant to alert, and ready for action.  Everyone is venturing outside to look for odd jobs to do – anything to stretch the muscles and soak up some sunshine.  There are yards getting raked and tree branches being trimmed; a general tidying up while we wait for the grass to turn green and the dandelions to start blooming.

Gardeners are all trying to satisfy their longing for green things by planting seeds inside.  At the rate my giant pumpkins are growing I’ll soon need to trail their vines around the living room.  I might have been a tad over-eager for an early start when I planted them, but it was something to do until I could go out and play in my real garden.  Everyone has the same itch – even those who keep their gardening down to a few deck planters - just want to get started, to feel the moist earth on their fingers, to see the sprouts break through the soil.

And, on a much grander scale, a drive around the countryside shows the industrial side of growing things.  Tractors and all kinds of implements are parked helter-skelter around farm yards where it’s dry enough to change cultivator shovels and grease wheel bearings; the kinds of things that give farmers something to do while they wait for the frost to come out of the ground.

The other day I had to smile at the sight of one farmer’s seeding machinery, all hooked up and parked at the edge of a field.  Obviously all of his pre-seeding tasks had been taken care of but the time still wasn’t quite right to get rolling yet – but boy, was he ever ready to go! 

To me, as I drove past, it even looked like the tractor had its nose in the air, sniffing the wind.

                                                IT HAPPENED ON A THURSDAY    

It finally happened.  Spring showed up, puffing in (at 26 kph, gusting to 37) last Thursday like she just realized she was late for a date.  I don't know where she had been dilly-dallying for the past month, but it seems she has snapped out of it now. 

The melting of the snow took exactly three days: on Thursday there were a few darker spots showing through the snow banks, on Friday the yard was half clear, and by Saturday night there was none of the white stuff left.  It was like watching a movie on fast forward.  If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes I wouldn't have believed it possible: an entire season took less than a week.  Up until now I had always thought that was just a cliché. 

We saw our first robins on Wednesday, I heard my first meadowlark on Thursday, and we woke to the mourning doves calling to each other on Friday morning.  At this rate I better get the humming bird feeders up too.  As I write this morning there is a whole flock of blackbirds in the maples behind the house excitedly chattering at each other like they've just arrived at a family reunion - they may be brash and noisy but it's a happy sound.

If our household is any indication of what's happening across the prairies, humans are poking their noses out of their lairs, dazed by the bright light in the sky, and feeling the need to find something to do in the sunshine.  By 10:30 yesterday morning I had performed my ritual first walk around the yard checking for life in my asparagus patch, under the peony mulch, and amongst the rhubarb debris from last year.  I am fully aware that these things will not show up for weeks, but I literally can't help myself, so I may as well get it out of the way first thing.

That way I can move on to what actually needs to be done ... we have a dog.

While I did my woman things the man went over to his shop and got going on his man list of things to do.  A local once told us that in Guatemala "if it can't be done with a machete, it's not man's work".  I don't know if they were kidding or not, but you can substitute the word 'machine' for 'machete' for rural Canadian culture ... and I'm only partially kidding, in case you're wondering.

By mid afternoon I knew the ground was too frozen to even scratch around in, and the gardens were too muddy to explore for signs of life.  There was just one thing to do - my favorite - go and clear out dead trees from the shelterbelt!  I've been waiting years for a wood chipper; this year my piles of chopped branches are all going to be guilt free!  If there is a scientific name for my particular brand of crazy, I'm not aware of what it is, but I do know I'm not alone.

Meanwhile the man had fired up his tractor and brought a bucket of black dirt in to fill in a couple of low spots in the lawn.  It was easy to see he needed a farming fix, but this didn't quite fill that need. 

It was no surprise to me a little while later, to see the tractor and tiller pull into the pasture to the east of the yard - he was looking for somewhere dry enough to till.  My thought was "That will keep him busy untangling bale twine from the tiller."  There had to be at least 14 miles of it out there from all the years of storing bales and feeding cattle.  I went back to what I was doing - that was his problem.

Some time later I noticed the tractor was stopped.  I was impressed that 14 miles of bale twine could be wound up that fast, but at least it would give him lots to do while I made supper. 

A good while later I checked on him again and was surprised that nothing had moved since I had come inside.  Strange ... either he should have been going again by now, or he at least would have come in to report on whatever was going on.  I picked up my phone to text him a question mark and spotted his phone on its charger.  Well, okay then, I would have to go check on him the old fashioned way.

There's always something a little scary about checking on a machine that's sitting still when it should be moving.  What if he was trying to cut wrapped twine off the rotors and something let go or jumped into gear when he was too close?  What if it clunked him on the head?  Or ran over him?  I double checked the yard for any sign of him or a missing vehicle but those possibilities were ruled out; I would need to check the scene of the crime.  I fired up the quad and headed out to the pasture.  Maybe he had taken the .22 and was trying to get the gopher population down.

The pasture was empty.  The tractor was empty.  I took a short tour around the fence line; nothing.  I checked the approach out of the field - my quad tracks seemed to be the only ones there.  The only walk this man would ever take would be straight back to the yard.  This was a head scratcher, alright, but eventually I came to the obvious conclusion - he had been abducted by aliens.  I always knew it would happen someday.

They returned him by suppertime though, disguised as neighbours who had wanted help to unload a new corn planter. 

As of this morning spring is in full spring ... I have laundry hanging out on the line, my bedding plants are getting their first day of outside sunshine on the deck, I'm heading out to clear more forest, and he's off to work getting ready to put this year's crop in.  And everybody's smiling.  It's good to see you Spring!  Better late than never.

                                                           HOUSE ARREST

*sigh*  When will this winter ever end?

I realize Canadian winters have a reputation to uphold.  Ask anyone who isn't from here and they will tell you that cold and winter is what we're known for.  Well, also there's Banff and the RCMP and Niagara Falls, and how nice the people are, but top of mind is always ice and snow. 

As Canadians we know this is not true.  We have summers too.  There is proof.  We have pictures. 

In a normal year (if there is such a thing), winter should be in our rear view mirror by mid April but spring 2018 is proving to be a reluctant participant in the regular story line.  I think even the snowmobilers and the ice fishermen have had their fill by now.  If we could figure out how to give Old Man Winter the old 'heave-ho' I think the whole country would show up for his going away party.

Some winters are particularly harsh with a steady train of storms to snow us under.  Some are bitterly cold for weeks on end.  Some start before Hallowe'en.  And as seems to be the case this year, some plan to stick around until the May long weekend - just for the heck of it.  *sigh*

As it is, I personally feel like I am under house arrest.  I pace the rooms, looking for something to do (Well, not the dusting.  I'm not that desperate.), I reread books, I stare out the windows.  I sigh, and I dream of bbq suppers and sipping coffee in the morning sunshine on the deck.  These days I do a lot of sighing.  I just want out of my cage.

Not only do I not know what my crime is, I have no idea how long the sentence is going to be.  It doesn't seem to help that my fellow countrymen are imprisoned with me under the same circumstances - so much for the saying "misery loves company".  At this point Misery just wants let outside without having to wear a parka.

In a cruel conspiracy, the weather predictors keep promising us temperatures that will melt the snow; taunting us with lines like "plus 2 on Saturday!" or "7 above by mid week!"  Whether they do this to undermine my sanity, or because they are just plain mean, I don't know.  *sigh*  What I do know is that if I had a dollar for every time they have broadcast these false promises I could afford a trip to Mexico to thaw out.

Or maybe the money would be better spent on a small greenhouse in the backyard.  I'd still be 'on the inside' but it would be warm, I love the scent of moist earth, and the colour green is soothing to my soul.

I'm not sure if this means anything, but late yesterday I noticed brown patches showing through the snow banks in the front yard.  This morning they are slightly bigger.  I think this is how spring goes.  Is our parole about to be granted?

I have also been invited to spend a day at a halfway house of sorts.  It's being offered as a re-integration to normal life, work-the-day program at a greenhouse, but I'll take it, if only for the warmth and the chance to hang out with other parolees.

This may signal the beginning of the end.  Or the end of the beginning: the weatherman's latest news concerns a 'wintery mix' early next week.  *sigh*

                                          THAT SMALL TOWN FEELING

 Friday night, April 6, just before bedtime, I took a scroll through my Facebook feed to see what was going on in the world.  It was meant to be a weather check, or an update on family members' holiday in Hawaii, but that's not what greeted me at the top of my page.  Instead there was the notice from the RCMP that there had been a serious accident involving a semi truck and the Humboldt Broncos team bus on their way to a playoff game in Nipawin.  Although the accident had happened almost three hours before there was no other news to be had.  The radio silence gave it the feeling of very, very, very bad.

As I prepared for bed I tried to whittle down my foreboding.  Arbitrarily I picked the number 4 and decided that would be bad enough - a loss of 4 lives would be bad enough.

My first waking thoughts at dawn took me right back to the news story and the people involved.  I've walked a mile in those shoes.  I've been delivered that exact kind of news.  I know all those grueling stages of grief ... starting with the glaring surrealism of the morning after a fatal accident.  My heart went out to everyone having to deal with that.

As I made coffee my sense of foreboding nudged me to pick a more realistic number.  A big truck, a loaded bus ... I adjusted my number upwards to 7, thinking that would allow for relief when it didn't turn out to be that bad. 

I reached for my iPad, keyed in my password, brought up my newsfeed, and my heart sunk.  14.  Double my 'grasping at straws' number.  I, and every other person in Saskatchewan (on the prairies? in Canada?), felt like we'd been gut-punched.

The News Channel played all day.  News trickled out.  There was a photo of the crash site with a jumble of metal impossible to make sense of.  There was a post from one of the trauma doctors in Saskatoon praising everyone for their work in such horrific circumstances.  A father of one of the players posted a picture of his son and two team mates all holding hands across their emergency room gurneys - powerful evidence of team spirit and solidarity no hockey game had ever asked of them.

And there were all kinds of messages of support from all levels of the hockey world, from all levels of Canadian government, and from around the world.  Sheldon Kennedy spoke of his experience in the Swift Current Broncos bus accident 30 years ago.  The New Brunswick basketball team accident story surfaced again.  It's not like accidents don't happen all the time, but when they take kids bound for games, there's something that just takes your breath away.

Listening to the National News was an opportunity to view our province through outside eyes.  One announcer's opinion stood out to me as he seemed unable to fathom how, with the vast open space of Saskatchewan, how could it be that these two vehicles could come to be in the same place at the same time?  Good question, Fate.  Care to let us in on the answer?

The other comment that stood out to me was from our new Premier, Scott Moe, who in his remarks referred to Saskatchewan as "one small town".  My first reaction was one of defensiveness - we are a vibrant and industrious people - but then I realized he wasn't saying we lacked sophistication, he was commending us for our empathy.  He is bang-on right about that.

This province has huge land mass.  We have more miles of road per capita than most other places on the planet; small towns dotting the map, population scattered across our farming landscape.  There is much physical distance between us but our experience of living with these demographics also unites us.  One such example of common ground is that our communities all have hockey rinks and home teams we cheer on.  Players, parents, and fans all travel between towns for games; it's part of the fabric of our lives.  In this way, there is no one who doesn't feel connected to this catastrophic accident on a lonely intersection 15 minutes from the arena this team was supposed to play their next game in.  But for the grace of God, it could have been any one of us.

And despite the low population numbers spread across such distances, there are no six degrees of separation.  Personally I knew no one on that bus, but a friend of mine regularly played golf with the driver and another lives in the area and is closely associated with it's hockey community.  A few of our local boys have played on these teams in the past and would know the billet families and team staff, at the very least. 

That's one degree of separation, multiple times.  In this 'one small town' atmosphere you can multiply it by about a million, and if such a photo were possible you would see every one of us holding the hands of those boys, and all who love them, across the gurneys, and the miles, as we all begin the journey toward healing.

                                     SEASONAL INSANITY

I thought I was safe because I had a plan.  Past experiences had shown me that one needs to muster massive amounts of common sense to survive at this game - but I was pretty sure I could pull it off this time.  I really, 100 percent, absolutely, for sure, thought I could allow myself a little bit of a starter tray of dirt and seeds without any kind of dangerous explosion this year.  It wouldn't be like all those other years so long ago.  I was older and wiser now.  I had learned my lessons about reasonable expectations and house capacity. 

And, besides, all I was doing was giving those giant pumpkin seeds a bit of a head start to amaze the grandkids.  That's what Grandmas do, isn't it?

And Grandpas buy into the idea and offer to build a special shelving unit so that the light from the big window can be utilized to it's fullest for growing green things.  That's what Grandpas do.

I should've recognized the slippery slope we were on right there, but no, the plan was merely going to be a few giant pumpkins.  How does that saying go?  "One drink is one too many, a thousand's not enough"? 

Maybe my insanity has an actual physical starting point.  Maybe it's my Scottish blood.  Maybe I just can't stand to see something going to waste.  When I went to plant those few pumpkin seeds and it only took up one third of one tray of seed pots something inside me shuddered.  How ridiculous to waste seeds and sunshine - I had all kinds of potting soil!

And besides, it just so happened that I wanted to give my begonias a head start.  If I got them growing strong and healthy now they could be ready to bloom at the end of May when it was safe to put them outside.  I could have begonias all summer long.  With that move I was up to one and half trays of expectant dirt  gracing my shelves. 

"Much better!"  I congratulated myself, like I didn't know what was going to happen next.

You see, when I was buying those few pumpkin seeds (for the grandkids) I had also slipped other seed packets into the shopping cart.  There were watermelons and cantaloupe and peppers - things that I don't normally grow so it wasn't so much "greenhousing" as it was a scientific experiment to see if they would grow ... I rationalized to myself.

Mysteriously, on the same shopping trip two or three extra growing trays came home with me.

But just like pancakes and syrup, they just didn't even up.  You know: there's always a little syrup left over so you take another pancake, and then you need a little more syrup, and then another tiny pancake to use that up.  So it went with my dirt and my seeds.

I had made myself a solemn oath not to grow things that I would normally buy at a greenhouse (there are two local establishments whose business plans rely heavily on me and I don't want to let them down) but I realize now that still left the door open for a lot of craziness on my part.  I mean, who in the right mind would buy hollyhocks at a greenhouse?  Or Lavender seedlings?  Or passionflower?  Or chrysanthemums?  Or Milkweed for their butterflies?  Well, maybe other people would, I don't know.  This I do know, though; I never have.

I have every suspicion that I may not be in my right mind.

This planting frenzy of which I speak took place two weeks ago.  Somehow I managed to stop short of filling every empty soup can on the place with dirt so I could plant something else.  Believe it or not, the shelving unit gifted to me still has space - which is a damn good thing because 80% of the seeds are up and some are in need of bigger pots already.  The giant pumpkins are definitely living up to their reputation.  And, what made me think I needed two dozen watermelon, anyway?

Oh how I wish I had the intestinal fortitude to weed some of those babies out.  How can it be that the same person who heartlessly sets a mouse trap can be reduced to fits of guilt for up-rooting so much as one tiny tomato seedling?  It's just another quirk of my particular insanity, I suppose.

As we stood and surveyed the green explosion going on at our picture window this morning I Googled 'hobby greenhouses' and my co-conspirator began to think of what he had on hand to get one started.  I wonder - are we at the bottom of this slippery slope yet?  How will we know when we get there?  And, if it's warm and sheltered, will we want to plant something while we're there?

GOOD FRIDAYS

I began this morning - Good Friday 2018 - in a text conversation with my sister.  We were both in preparations for guests for the Easter weekend and were sort of comparing notes on our progress.  She confessed to being in her usual Hot Cross bun panic and wanted to know how much mashed potatoes I used when I made mine. 

She is the family expert in this field; for the life of me I can't think why she would ask me about a recipe she has been amazing her neighbours with for at least two decades, but she did.  And I had to confess that I had cheated.  I don't use the time-honoured, handed-down-through-the-generations, made-with-mashed-potatoes recipe mom used, I throw together my normal, never fail recipe and added grated orange rind, raisins and cinnamon to Easter them up a bit.  She told me that this made mine "fake buns" and the conversation ended there.  Either she got too busy with her day to keep texting, or I've been excommunicated from the family.

I had plenty to do too: I had company coming as well.

As I worked other Good Fridays stirred through my memories - at my age there are quite a few of them.  The most poignant involves another sister.  One who lived close enough that when she sent out her invitation for a Hot Cross bun feast on Good Friday afternoon we could be there to join in the food and fellowship.  She was as famous for her Easter gatherings as the sister in Alberta is for hers, and I miss her dearly on a lot of days, but absolutely on Good Friday.

The tradition of inviting the neighbourhood for fresh Hot Cross buns probably goes back further in the family, but my earliest memories are of Mom snipping crosses into the buns and then filling those marks with icing when they were cooked and cooled.  Mom loved being a hostess and shone in that role - genetics that Fate kind of skimped on for me.  I can, and have, fed housefuls of people but I always feel a bit overwhelmed by it.  Mom always looked like she revelled in it - a profile in courage and hard work in my books.

But all my Good Friday memories weren't about buns.  It was a visit on a Good Friday 46 years ago that was the starting point of my first marriage.  Of course we didn't know the future that afternoon, but for some reason individual memories of that day stand out, crystalized in time.  It was a good Good Friday.

Another one that came to mind wasn't so great.  It was the Easter after my parents' marriage broke up - hard times for us all, especially Dad.  He and my three youngest siblings had come to spend Easter with us and I had served salmon loaf for supper when they arrived (why do I remember that?).  It was a sad, long weekend with all of us not knowing what to say.

A Good Friday many years later also stars my Dad.  He and his new wife were visiting, the day was very warm for early spring.  I was wearing an old T-shirt, had rolled up the bottom of my pant legs and was barefoot as I mopped the kitchen floor; I have always wondered what it was about me that day -  my body language?  life attitude? actual physical appearance?  that moved him to put his arm around my shoulder and say "You look so much like your mother!"  There was no doubt to me that I was being given a wonderful compliment.  He never stopped loving her. 

I remembered the family gatherings too, one blending into another - especially in our early married years when the young couples and their little ones would flock home to bask in the togetherness of grown-up siblings and new cousin connections.  Happy times playing cards at Grandma's kitchen table between her noon feast and her supper spread.  Life was so simple, so sweet, so innocent.

Somehow I find that I'm the Grandma now.  I try to live up to the role; I've stocked up on chocolate, freshened up the guest beds, and planned several meals days in advance so I can visit too.  There is also a chance I have lost standing in my family because I made a batch of  Hot Cross buns which, apparently, are fake. 

But they sure are good.

                                     SPRING CLEANING

As if my raging case of spring fever wasn't bad enough, now my husband has gone and bought me a wood chipper!

I realize that this statement fails to make any sense to many people, but for those of you with gardening and landscaping in their blood - well, you guys understand.  To the majority of the population the words 'wood chipper' only pop up in news reports of murderers trying to dispose of bodies, but to those of us whose idea of fun it to go 'clean out the shelterbelt' it means ... well, I guess it means a way to get rid of the evidence of our crimes as well. 

Every year I get carried away with my dead tree removal, ending the day with huge piles of branches that need to be hauled away - by a man and a truck or a tractor.  I've pointed out many times that a wood chipper would make his life easier too.  And finally years of kind, patient, loving reminders about this have paid off; he came home from an auction sale with what I will graciously accept as my Mother's day present for 2018.

Unfortunately it only makes my urge to get outside even worse.  Now I just can't wait to get out there and start chopping!  As if I haven't been yearning for warm enough days to go walking with the dog.  As if I haven't bought a whole bunch of seeds and a couple of starter trays so I can give things like watermelons and giant pumpkins a jump start into summer.  The packages say I need to wait until 4 to 6 weeks before the last frost - it feels like an eternity.

I long to wander around the yard hunting for signs of life - green blades of grass, swelling buds on the trees, the crocuses and tulips I planted last September, little, pink peony shoots poking out of last year's debris, or those incredibly brave pansies that seem to pop out of snowbanks already in bloom.  I want to hang clothes on the line, capturing the smell of heaven so I can bring it inside.  I want to burn off last year's asparagus foliage to clear the ground for this year's sprouts.  I'll even be happy to see the first flush of stinkweed out on my veggie garden because it's proof that the ground is warming enough to grow stuff.

Heck I'll just be happy to undecorate the outdoor Christmas tree and treasure hunt all the hidden dog bones so my lawnmower doesn't have to. 

Meanwhile I day dream. 

Our yard is bordered by a very old shelterbelt on two sides.  The poor old maples are mostly dead, the cottonwoods have all fallen over, and carraganna are like an invading army.  In amongst this mess are second generation maples, some volunteer poplars, scrub oaks of unknown origin, chokecherry bushes, and the surprise crab apple tree I discovered last spring.  Is it too much to dream that I can end this summer with a shelterbelt of only healthy, wanted trees? 

The thing that has held me back all the other years I wanted to tackle this job has not been the chopping down of the deadwood, but getting rid of it afterward.  Husband motivation - no matter how kindly, patiently, and lovingly I do it - doesn't always get the action that I'm aiming for.  If I can chop and chip all by myself, the sky's the limit.

And, spring fever being as crazy-making as it is, my brain has tumbled forward to all the other things on my wish list: remove the fence posts and bury the electric fence wire so I can mow right across the yard, trench a water line across to the orchard we planted so I can water from the dugout with ease, and rent a man lift or scaffolding so we can paint trim and install facia on the house. 

I'm sure it isn't too much to ask of a man who loves me so much he bought me a wood chipper.  I'll break it to him gently.  If I should disappear - remember, he has a wood chipper.